More Than You Know
by sondragonfly
Summary: A repost and extension of a oneshot written a couple years ago, exploring situations and senarios with various couples, canon and AU, surrounding the phrase “I love you more than you know.” Rated M for Adult Themes.
1. HPHG

**Disclaimer: **Any recognizable situations and characters are the property of J.K. Rowling, etc., and were used without permission. I'm not claiming them as my own nor am I using them for profit. It's Rowling's universe; I just play in it.

**A/N:** This is a repost and extension of a one-shot I wrote a couple years back. I wanted to explore situations with various couples, canon and AU, surrounding the phrase "I love you more than you know." Reviews are welcome, as always. Enjoy!

* * *

_Bitterly, he watched her still, sleeping form underneath the sheets, as he drank from a bottle of firewhiskey. After they had made love, she fell promptly to sleep, as was her habit. And he, used to her behavior, had taken to stowing away bottles of hard drink in his bedside drawer. In nights like these, he could never go to sleep without aid._

• • • • • • • •

He came to her, his black hair wild. She reached up and ran her hand through it. She loved his hair long like this. She smiled._ Oh, Sirius…_ she said to herself, sighing. "Happy anniversary, love." Placing a steady hand on his chest, she felt his firm heartbeat under her palm.

"Hermione." He drew her forward, bending his head to touch his lips to her neck, tasting her soft, fragrant skin. She looked up. There was a question in his eyes that glittered in the darkness, like hard obsidian.

They moved together, caressing each other and tugging loose their clothing, until she felt the bed behind her knees. Giggling, she threw her arms around his neck and brought him down on the bed with her. Bracing himself over her, he smiled softly, watching the moonlight on her fair skin, turning it milky white.

"By Merlin, Hermione, you are beautiful."

She smiled and drew him down for a deep kiss. "I love you," she whispered against his mouth. His hands came up to knot in her thick auburn hair, and her own hands ran up his chest and down his back, tracing the scars from the war she felt along the way. It always pained her remembering the horrible things Sirius had gone through. She kissed each one reverently.

"I love you," he whispered back, his hands exploring her body as he had done countless times before. She gasped at his touch. He couldn't help but smile at the soft noises she made when he wove his magic on her skin.

Uncontrollably, she flung her arms out, pushing herself against his hands. _"Now,"_ she whispered—begged. _"Now, please!"_

He couldn't deny her, nor himself, and he complied readily with her demand. Years of marriage couldn't quench this thirst he had of her, the heady delight he felt at being in her presence. He longed for it, he needed it, needed _her_ more than anything else in his life.

Even if she… no, he wouldn't think about that now. It might not even happen tonight, as it sometimes didn't. Right now it was just him and her, and that was all that mattered.

He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at her. Her grey eyes were cloudy with longing. He loved seeing her like this, her eyes feral and dancing, her hair spread out against his pillows, her fingers raking livid marks on his shoulders.

One of the things that he love and hated was that whenever they made love, Hermione would lose herself completely. Nothing apart from what was happening between them existed, and she allowed herself to be free. He couldn't blame her, and he didn't.

She didn't know how out of control she could get, and he would never tell her. He wouldn't allow her to feel the horror he knew she'd feel if she ever found out. He knew that if he told her, she'd leave him thinking it was only fair, only right. She'd tell him that they couldn't live a lie.

But this one lie was better than all the truths he'd ever known.

She was reaching her climax, and he braced himself for it, praying fervently that _it_ wouldn't happen, not tonight. Not on their anniversary. "_S—Sirius!"_ she screamed, and then gasped in horror.

His hopes were dashed, as soon as the word escaped her mouth—the word he had feared since their wedding night. Quickly, he reached for his wand and pointed it to her temple. _"Obliviate!"_ he hissed. Her face, contorted in shock, a half-formed apology on her lips, burned the memory forever into his mind.

• • • • • • • •

_Bitterly, he watched her still, sleeping form underneath the sheets, as he drank from a bottle of firewhiskey. After they had made love, she fell promptly to sleep, as was her habit. And he, used to her behavior, had taken to stowing away bottles of hard drink in his bedside drawer. In nights like these, he could never go to sleep without aid._

_In the beginning he thought he could deal with it. He loved her, he truly did. Dumbledore always touted the mantra that love would conquer all things, so he had thought his love would be enough for her. Enough for them both._

_But through the months, and years, it wore away at him. He did not begin to love her less—that was impossible. He did, however, begin to dread the days they made love. Because he knew that she would not be able to control herself. And he would be hurt again. And she would never know…_

_Taking another swig of firewhiskey, he said aloud, "I love you, Hermione. More than you know." _

_He loved her more than anything. He loved her beauty, her intelligence, her compassion, her quirks. He loved everything that made her Hermione, even if it hurt him, which it inevitably did. His only wish was that one day, she would be able to love _him_ as well… and not the memory of his dead godfather._


	2. LMNM

**A/N: **I hope no one thought it was Sirius Black in the previous chapter. Anyway, here's another dark chapter for your perusal. If you're looking for a slightly more optimistic take on the Narcissa/Lucius relationship, you should check out my other fic entitled "The Sanctity of Blood," /shameless plugging. The next chapter of this fic will be on a much lighter note, I promise. I just haven't written it yet, is all. Enjoy!

* * *

"Get up, you worthless slag, and stop your blubbering. You disgust me. I want you out of my sight."

There are times when Narcissa wished he would just hit her. She sees his fingers twitching against his thigh, curling into a fist. She sees the skin turning white as it tightens across his knuckles. She knows he wants to, longs to, the same way his fingers once longed to caress her years ago when they were first in love, and there was nothing in the world but them.

But no, he doesn't strike her. All Malfoys, you see, are taught never to hit women. They are taught to charm them, pleasure them, _marry_ them, but never to hit them.

No, he doesn't strike her.

Of course, he doesn't caress her, either.

His gaze is cold as he looks down at Narcissa's weeping, huddled form. _He doesn't _need_ to hit me_, she's realized over the years. The words he throws at her—like stones, like knives—have hurt her more than fists possibly could.

Narcissa's tears darken the carpet beneath her. She reaches out to him, to brush the edge of his robes, his cloak, to feel something of his that reminds her that under the ice there is human flesh. But he lifts his robes away delicately, his nose crinkling slightly in revulsion.

She wishes he would push her, kick her, slap her. Because then she'd have proof. Proof that he isn't the perfect husband he claims to be. Proof that she doesn't deserve this.

_And then I'd finally get to feel his skin against mine again._

The trouble with words, as harmful as they might be, is that they never leave a mark. If they did, her whole body would be covered in bruises and scars.

Narcissa wasn't always like this. A pitiful, cowering mass. There was a time when she was beautiful. She used to be the most celebrated debutante in my generation—the envy of every Pureblood female in the Wizarding community, and her fame only grew when she had married the most eligible bachelor.

_If I had known what I would turn into… if I had known what loving Lucius Malfoy would turn me into…_

Oh, yes. She loved Lucius Malfoy.

She loves Lucius Malfoy like she loves the blood that runs through her veins, and the hundreds of years of Black ancestry that flows within her. She loves him because he's her husband, and he gave her a son of the Blood. She loves him because she doesn't know how _not_ to.

Yet, despite her love, Narcissa has tried to teach herself to be numb to him. She tried desperately to learn to be cold from within and without, so she wouldn't have to feel his words, or his threats, or the looks of disgust he shoots at her with eyes that cut like razors.

The only thing she learned was that she could never be as cold as _he_ was.

When they were younger, when they'd have a row, he'd always storm out angry and violent. He'd taunt her, call her filthy names, whittle her down to nothing. He was a master of crafting words that could destroy Narcissa. That hasn't changed.

Hours later in the dead of night, after he'd cooled off and she had cried herself to sleep, he would go to her. Holding her closely against himself, he'd whisper apologies into her hair. His lips would brush her closed eyelids, kissing away the tears. He would promise to never do it again. He would beg, plead, for her forgiveness.

Foolishly… _foolishly_… she would grant it every time. Foolishly, she would believe his empty promises. With all her heart, she knew that never again would he hurt her. Never again would he cause her to cry. With her entire being, she believed him.

It was because she held this belief so dearly that she felt so devastated and heartbroken when he hurt her—_inevitably_—again. And again.

And again.

This time, however, after countless years of marriage and countless years' worth of words between them, there would be no nighttime apologies whispered under warm sheets. There wouldn't be hushed promises or lingering kisses. Narcissa's husband never apologizes anymore. And he never, ever touches her. Not _her_.

He purses his lips as he glares at the contemptible creature he once called wife. She wonders for a fleeting moment whether he was going to spit on her, but instead he turns away toward the door.

Inexplicably, outrageously, she whispers, "I love you" to his retreating back. "More than you know." It was almost inaudible, and Narcissa wouldn't have known he heard her if he hadn't paused, his back stiffening.

"Clean yourself up," he replies briskly.

All Malfoys, you see, are taught never to hit women.

But just as they are taught not to hit women, they're _never_ taught not to hurt them at all.


End file.
